The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Lucy squirmed through the mass of bodies. The cipher on her arm had begun to warm again, and when she pressed against a fat man dressed in a mate’s uniform, he recoiled as if jabbed. By the time he whirled about, Lucy had pushed around a trio of gray-haired women in hobnailed boots carrying the heavy awls used in sail making. She wrapped her left arm in the damp folds of her cloak and held it against her stomach. With any luck it wouldn’t burst into flame.

  Her heart felt like it was rattling against her ribs as she squeezed to the edge of the platform, leaning back against the thrust of the crowd so that she wouldn’t get pushed into the water. She held her hand over her eyes against the wind-driven rain, squinting through the murky fog and wet.

  For a while, there was nothing. Then slowly a shape emerged. A ship, but with an unfamiliar shape. It was stubby and sat high in the water. It was painted black with a yellow bowsprit and thick yellow stripes down its length. Most of its triangular black and red striped sails flapped uselessly, shredded by gale winds. The yardarms twisted and swung, the foremast listing drunkenly to the side, held in place by tangled rigging. The main course and the main topsails were still intact, keeping the crippled ship moving. Lucy shook her head, refusing to believe what she was seeing.

  “Jutras.”

  The word was echoed all around her, accompanied by various gestures to deflect evil. Followers of Chayos bunched the fingers of their right hands into their left palms and sharply flicked away invisible dirt. Those who held to Braken stroked a splayed right palm across their eyes. Meris’s adherents balled their left hands into fists and blew across the tops of their knuckles. The follows of Hurn stroked the index and middle fingers of their left hands over their eyes and pointed the fingers at the invader. But nothing made the Jutras ship disappear. Limping ahead of the driving wind, it sidled closer to the platform.

  Sailors in ragged clothing scurried over the decks, crawling on the tangled rigging and trying to furl the sails, even as others cranked the capstan to drop the anchor and slow the ship. She could hear the bellows of the captain or mate calling rapid orders in Jutras. But the rigging was a mess. The main course twisted, one end flapping free. The main top braces swung and jerked as the men fought to bring the sail under control. Loose lines snaked through the air, flogging the seamen unmercifully. When the sail refused to give, they hacked it down. The heavy canvas crumpled and swept across the deck and over the rail. It rammed a seaman, sending him careening overboard. He bobbed in the water, arms flailing, his screams lost in the sounds of the siren, wind, and waves. There were shouts from the massed crowd as the Jutras sailor disappeared beneath the prow of the ship, though whether in sympathy or righteous anger, Lucy couldn’t be sure. A moment later the anchor dropped at last and the ship jerked sharply, pulling ponderously around only a few dozen yards from the platform.

  The sirens continued to scream. A wedge of armored Hornets pushed through the crowd, prodding people back. Lucy sank back into the throng, sifting back through the tense bodies until she stood behind the crowd, pressed up against the wall of a teahouse. She was soaking wet, but she didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel anything. A Jutras warship in Blackwater Bay. It wasn’t possible. The Jutras couldn’t cross the Inland Sea. They had no Pilots to navigate them through the ever-shifting currents and underwater landscape, the sylveth tides, and the knucklebone weirs. And yet—here one was.

  She thought of the contract she’d found in the black-mailer’s box. Her anger swelled, clawing like a cat. Someone from Crosspointe had helped them. Which meant—Was this ship the first of an armada? Were the Jutras about to overrun Crosspointe?

  Fear sizzled up her back. Crosspointe had no army, only the majicars. But the Jutras had majicars of their own. If they had found a way to bring their army across the sea, Crosspointe would most certainly fall.

  The realization jolted Lucy into action. She shoved through the crowds descending the Maida Vale and headed for Faraday. Sarah would know someone who could read the contract. If not, Lucy would take it to Cousin William and pray it wasn’t too late.

  There were no footspiders to be found and Lucy was soon breathless. Her head ached from her fall in the warehouse and her legs burned with the effort of climbing up into Salford Terrace. She was hungry and her mouth was sticky and dry. Her sodden cloak dragged at her. She stopped to rest in the lee of a building, bracing herself against the wall. She could no longer see the harbor, but the emergency sirens continued to wail. People milled in the street asking questions, their fear palpable.

  She had just crossed into Sherborn Park when the sirens ceased. Lucy staggered. The silence smothered her. She spun around. The harbor was hidden by low clouds and thundering rain. She swiped at her eyes. Still nothing. But it was a hopeful sign.

  It was midafternoon before she arrived at Faraday. She went around to the servants’ entrance and pulled the bell. A scrubbing boy answered and stared at Lucy in bug-eyed startlement. She could imagine what she looked like. She didn’t bother explaining herself, but thrust past and down the short flight of steps to a wide corridor of unfinished stone. She marched down to the kitchen and went inside, basking in the heat of the oven.

  “What’s this? Who do ye think ye are, sneakin’ in here makin’ a mess all over my floor?”

  Lucy turned slowly, lifting off her hood. Sarah’s cook was brandishing a long metal spoon in one hand, the other braced on her hip. Her round face was screwed tight with anger, her skin flushed and damp from the heat of the kitchen. When she saw who Lucy was, she relaxed slightly, but didn’t lower the spoon. She’d heard the sirens too.

  “I apologize, Matilda. But in all frankness, I’d rather track my mess through your kitchen than Sarah’s parlor. The consequences are less dire.”

  “Mebbe so,” Matilda said, lowering the spoon at last. “Boy, take Miss Trenton’s cloak and wring it out in the washroom. Hang it by the fire, and mind ye, spread it out so it dries. I’ll fetch ye something to dry yerself with,” she said to Lucy, and bustled away.

  The towels she brought didn’t really help. Lucy was soaked to her skin. She tried to wring out the hem of her tunic, but water continued to run down her legs in streams. She removed her boots and socks, which Matilda had a scullery girl whisk away to put by the fire with her cloak.

  “What ye need is a hot bath and dry clothes.”

  “I need a lot more than that,” Lucy said sardonically, glad that the weather spell on her satchel had survived. “Better send word up to Sarah that I’m here.”

  The footman returned with a blanket and orders to escort Lucy upstairs. She wrapped herself up, trying hard not to drip on the plush rugs lining the hallways. Sarah opened the door and drew Lucy inside, ordering hot water for a bath.

  She turned to Lucy, her arms crossed over her breasts. “You’re a sight. Does this have anything to do with the sirens?”

  “Not a footspider to hire between here and the docks,” Lucy agreed, going behind the dressing screen and peeling off her clothing. She dropped them on top of the blanket, her skin pimpling and her teeth beginning to chatter.

  Sarah passed her a dressing gown. Lucy pulled it on, putting her seal in the pocket. “The big news is that a crippled Jutras warship is sitting at anchor in Blackwater Bay.” She couldn’t help her snort of amusement. Maybe she wouldn’t be on the front page of the evening’s newspaper, after all.

  She came out from behind the screen to find Sarah staring, her face blank.

  “What—that makes you speechless? Not me having a collection of illegal ciphers? Astonishing. Maybe you should pour yourself a drink to steady your nerves. And me too, while you’re at it. There’s more.”

  “Steady my nerves? I’ll have you know my nerves are stone. I was under the impression the Jutras couldn’t cross the Inland Sea,” Sarah retorted, taking a decanter from a sideboard and pouring each of them a healthy snifter of brandy. She handed one to Lucy. “But this may warm the ice in your belly.”

  “I doubt it.” Lucy
took it anyway and gulped half the liquid. It went down like water. Almost immediately she felt dizzy. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  There was a knock at the door and Sarah let in a short parade of footmen carrying copper urns of hot water. They poured them into the bathtub before the hearth and left. Lucy didn’t wait for Sarah’s invitation to step into the scalding water. She sank down up to her neck.

  “Meris, but that feels good.” She worked her fingers into her draggled hair, pulling out the pins and letting the wet mass fall behind her, outside of the tub. The fire would dry it soon enough.

  Sarah sat in a low chair, sipping her brandy, her eyes turning to slits. “Now that you’re comfortable, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Lucy began with the Summerland’s ball—was it only three nights ago? It seemed so much longer. She ignored Sarah’s smirk when she described her meeting with Marten in the garden. In a matter-of-fact voice she described the events of Emberday, first the attack of the cipher and then the healing with Marten’s unregistered majicar.

  “He must be a decent majicar if you felt up to romping in bed all night with the handsome sea captain,” Sarah observed.

  Lucy held up her hands, turning pruny from the soak in the tub. Pink scars made elaborate geometric patterns across her skin. “I still have the use of them.”

  “Lucky,” Sarah said.

  “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe I’m meant to end up on the Bramble.”

  “The Bramble? More likely you’ll end up in a bonfire of your own making.”

  “Better than at the mercy of the Jutras. It may be they are about to invade.”

  Sarah sat up. “What are you talking about?”

  “I went to work this morning and was suspended pending a hearing—they seem to think I stole the blood oak. After, I broke into a warehouse and retrieved a box—the blackmailer told me exactly where to find it. I opened it”—Lucy rubbed her fingers over the back of her head, wincing at the ache that spread over her skull at the light pressure—“rather unexpectedly and explosively. In it were a number of very valuable jewels. And this.” She stood abruptly and stepped out of the tub, pulling the dressing gown back on. The linen clung clam-mily to her skin. She opened her satchel and retrieved the Jutras contract, handing it to Sarah. “I don’t suppose you can read it?”

  The other woman unfolded it, scanning it slowly and lifting her eyes to meet Lucy’s expectant gaze. “It’s Jutras. That’s an imperial seal.”

  Lucy nodded. “Someone is dealing with the Jutras. And now they’ve sailed into Blackwater Bay and dropped anchor. The ship’s in bad shape—it was storm chewed for sure. But nonetheless, it is here, and this document may be the reason why. Can you make anything out of it at all?”

  Sarah shook her head. “A few words. Nothing of any sense. So this is what your blackmailer has been about. What are you going to do?”

  “I was to turn it over to someone at the docks two glasses ago. The arrival of the Jutras ship made that impossible, even if I were inclined. The blackmailer promised to expose me in the evening edition of the paper if I didn’t follow his orders. He may do that. But on the other hand, if he thinks I went ahead and retrieved his merchandise, he may want to try to negotiate with me first. Not that I intend to go home and wait for him or the Crown Shields. I need a place to hide until I can find someone to translate this. Do you know anyone who can read Jutras?”

  Sarah’s answer came much slower than Lucy hoped. “Maybe. I’ll have to ask around. It’ll take a day or two.”

  Lucy refused to let her disappointment show. “I shall just have to be patient, then.”

  “Not one of your strongest qualities.”

  “Perhaps I shall improve with practice.”

  Sarah smiled. “I doubt it. What will you do now?”

  “Buying the evening paper seems like a good idea. And then I’ll go underground. I don’t have to turn up for work until the hearing. Unless the Crown Shields come looking for me, no one will miss me.”

  “Except Blythe, who will call out a pack of Corbies to find you.”

  “I’ll send word to her. And to my father,” Lucy said, remembering Hedrenion. Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. She winced.

  “In the meantime, why don’t I have Matilda send up some dinner and have a footman fetch the paper?”

  “If you don’t, I will.”

  After Sarah had called a servant, she turned back to Lucy with a sly look.

  “Let’s find you something to wear and you can tell me more about your adventures with Captain Thorpe.”

  “And aside from a bedsheet, what in your closet do you think might fit me?” Lucy asked, eyeing Sarah’s lithe figure.

  The other woman was not given the opportunity to answer. A sudden pounding thundered at the front door. Sarah went to the window overlooking the street and peered out. “Crown Shields. Apparently your blackmailer is true to his word.”

  “And they say such men can’t be trusted. Couldn’t he have waited until after dinner?” Lucy kept her voice light, even as panic thrilled through her. The cipher shot needles into her arm in response. She clutched it against her waist, trying to breathe slowly.

  “You can’t be here. Grab your things.”

  Lucy scooped up her sopping garments from behind the screen and followed Sarah into the bedchamber. It was richly decorated, with heavy, ornate furniture. Her four-poster bed sat high up on a pedestal. It was swathed with gauzy green draperies like a fairy bower. Sarah climbed up on top and reached down between the mattress and the headboard. She jumped down and pushed against the bed. It pivoted, the headboard pulling away from the wall. Beneath it was a square hole with iron rungs fixed to one side.

  “You can hide down there until they leave. They won’t find it.”

  “And if they don’t leave?” Lucy asked.

  “Then follow it out. Now hurry!”

  Lucy climbed up beside Sarah and dropped her clothes down the shaft. They landed seconds later with a plopping sound. She dangled her satchel over and let it go before sitting on the edge and swinging her legs over to get a foothold. She paused.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. They’ll do their search and be gone. It may take a while. Make yourself comfortable down there. You’ll want this.” She grabbed a thick blanket from the end of the bed and handed it to Lucy. “Now get down there and be quiet. Sooner they’re gone, the sooner you’ll get to eat. There are candles and things at the foot of the ladder.”

  Lucy still hesitated. “Maybe you should come down here too.”

  “I’ve nothing to worry about from the Crown Shields and I’m not letting them chase me out of my home and business,” Sarah declared. “Now go. Get some rest if you can. I had a client bring in a load of stuff to pawn. I need you to have a look at it. I can’t say for certain, but I think it might be salvage. Most of the ship marks were removed, but you can still make out some of them. One is the Kalibri, another the Sweet Song.” She hesitated. “Your seal is on those crates.”

  “What? That can’t be. I didn’t put my seal on any of the salvage. It hasn’t been inspected yet.”

  “Maybe they are from inspections you did on the ships some time ago?”

  But Lucy was already shaking her head. “I’ve never been assigned those ships before. The Kalibri was only commissioned this year.”

  The sounds of shouting came from belowstairs. Sarah’s lips tightened.

  “I’d better go. We’ll sort it out later. I’ve put everything in the vault. It’s not going anywhere. Keep quiet. I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

  There was nothing left for Lucy to do but comply. Slowly she climbed down, a lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow. Above her, the bed swung firmly shut. But the cipher on her arm flared bright and hot. Her hands began to blister on the rungs as they grew fiery. She dropped the blanket and clambered quickly the rest of the way down. Heat streaked through her. Her skin felt scorched. Sw
eat trickled down her forehead, over her ribs, and down her flanks. She wanted to tear off the dressing gown. Her hair steamed and smelled like wet dog.

  Lucy paced back and forth, bare feet slapping the smooth stone, shaking her arms, and breathing deeply. Sarah would be fine. She’d escaped from Esengaile and the men sent to murder her and she’d survived the iron collar. She’d lived years on the edge of a knife. She could take care of herself. Lucy repeated the reassurance under her breath in a constant litany. She could hear nothing but her own breathing and the swish of cloth as she moved. At last she stopped, holding her breath. Nothing. The stone walls allowed no sounds to permeate.

  She returned to pacing. Her hunger made her dizzy and her legs and feet were stiff from the walk from the harbor. She found candles by the light of the cipher and lit one. She picked up her wet clothes and wrung them out, hanging them on the ladder to dry. She wrapped herself in the blanket and settled on the floor to wait.

  Her thoughts tangled together as she ricocheted from concern for Sarah to worry for Blythe and James, to prayers that her family had warned Cousin William, to fears of the Jutras. And how had her seals ended up on salvage cargo in Faraday? Her mind gnawed itself as she tried to make sense of it all. At some point she fell asleep, the brandy she’d gulped on an empty stomach combining with her overwrought emotions and physical exhaustion to overwhelm her.

  She woke in the dark. The candle had burned out and her cipher no longer glowed. She lay on her side, her back against the wall. She sat up, grimacing at the ache in her neck, shoulder, and hip from lying on the cold hard floor. She rubbed her hands over her face, scrubbing at the crusted drool on her cheek, and pulling a stray hair out of her mouth. Slowly she stood and felt her way across the narrow space to the bin of candles. She lit one, feeling a rush of relief as the flickering flame pushed back the darkness.